


Time and Blood

by cloud_wolfbane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Time Travel, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloud_wolfbane/pseuds/cloud_wolfbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's found a new right-hand man, but this Sebastian Moran is more dangerous then the last one and seems to be following his own hidden agenda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call me Sebastian

**Author's Note:**

> This story may get very violent, how graphic the depictions depends on how I feel when I write them, sorry if that is a terrible warning.

Time and Blood  
Chapter One: Call me Sebastian

 

_We had a break in to a high security facility in Cardiff, yesterday._

_Oh?_

_Strangely, they only took one object, although it could be very dangerous in the wrong hands._

_Perhaps, you should invest in better security, though I don’t know why you are telling me this, Uncle, I don’t consult._

_No, I suppose you don’t._

 

 

Hamish glanced at his cards, than looked nervously to the right. 

The businessmen across from him smirked. _Banker, old money, terrible poker face, avoiding his wife._

“I’ll raise a hundred,” Hamish sighed, throwing the bill down like it hurt him. 

“Are we dipping too much into that trust fund, lad,” the businessman laughed, saluting with his scotch. 

“Naw,” Hamish drawled, shrugging in his over-priced jacket. He took a sip of his own scotch, it was his third sip and he was certain the drink was getting worse. 

“Can we continue?” Moran growled. _Ex-military, sniper, gambling problem, very dangerous._

“Of course, of course, relax old friend,” another businessman laughed, slapping Moran on the back. _Idiot, has two children, cheating on wife, hates his job._

Hamish watched the exchange, using the confusion to replace one of his cards with the ace in his sleeve. The other men were too drunk to notice, but Moran’s eyes narrowed. _Perfect._

When he laid his cards down, the other men groaned at his luck. Hamish gave a wink, “I best call it quits before lady luck gets fickle.” He pulled the money to him and tucked the roll of bills into his pocket; the amount just covered what he had lost. 

“Come back some time, John, we’ll wipe that bank account of yours,” the banker teased. 

“Let me recuperate, eh old man,” Hamish waved them off. He exited out a side door, stumbling down the cluttered alley as he tugged on his leather gloves. _“You keep coming back,”_ Hamish sang, loud enough to be rude, but not attract unwanted attention, _“to the scene of the crime, But the dead can’t speak…”_

“They can’t cheat either,” Moran growled. He stood beside the exit, a knife in his hand. 

Hamish scurried around, holding his hands up. “Hey man, I didn’t mean nothing. Can’t let my Da realize all that money’s gone y’know.” 

“I don’t appreciate young-blood idiots at my table, certainly not cheaters,” Moran was on him, not an ounce of military quickness lost since his discharge. He slammed Hamish into the wall, holding him with his forearm and banishing the knife with the other. 

“No, I suppose not,” Hamish, commented, dropping the rich college boy accent he’d been using all evening. He took a moment to savior the look of surprise on Moran’s face before stabbing him. He pushed the hunting knife through his bellybutton, than yanked up; the curve of his blade ripped open the soft belly until it caught on bone. 

He pushed Moran away, the ex-sniper falling like a sack. 

The kill had been messy and close, he had dark blood on his gloves and the sleeve of his jacket, but the dark leather disguised it. 

Clapping echoed down the alley. 

Hamish stepped over the corpse, taking his time turning to the clapping man. He was in his thirties, Irish-pale skin wrapped in a Westwood Suite. Hamish would know him anywhere. “I didn’t know I was putting on a show.”

“Oh, but you put it on so well, poor Seb had no idea,” Moriarty grinned, looking manic. 

“He certainly took cheating too seriously,” he drawled. 

“Hmm, especially for someone who didn’t cheat,” Moriarty bounced, literally bounced, over. He stood much to close, smelling like expensive cologne and blood. He slipped his hand into Hamish’s sleeve and tugged out the hidden card. It was an ace, the same card he had pretended to cheat with. 

Hamish shrugged, “What can I say, it was a lucky hand.”

“The question is, why go through all the trouble to incite poor Seb?” Moriarty’s voice was an effeminate singsong, but his eyes were deadly serious. 

“I heard there was a well paying boss in the area, but he’s choosy about hiring, thought I’d open up a position,” Hamish raised a brow, challenging. 

“Did you now? I don’t suppose you’re any good with a gun?” 

Hamish straightened, giving a manic smirk as insane as Moriarty’s, “Oh, I’m very good.”

“Well then, what shall I call you my dear?” Moriarty looked inordinately pleased. 

Hamish glanced at the mutilated body on the ground, blood pooling. “Call me Sebastian, Sebastian Moran.”

Moriarty burst into a gleeful cackle, “Oh, Oh, I think we’ll get along very well!”


	2. Very good

Chapter Two: Very Good

 

_Dad was a good shot?_

_The best I knew, saved my life more than once._

_I want to learn._

_I’ve many skills, but sharp shooting isn’t one of them._

_I want to learn._

_I’ll take you to the range, Mycroft owes me a favor._

 

Despite his exuberance, Moriarty only led him to the street. He settled into the car idling there and drove off with a wave. 

Hamish didn’t follow, didn’t need too. He had known where Moriarty was staying well before he went in search of Moran. Now, the real challenge was starting; Moriarty wanted him to prove his claim. 

Hamish wasn’t about to risk a taxi ride with blood on his sleeve. He took a staggering route back to his flat, carefully avoiding the CCTV. 

His flat was small and infested with a particularly stubborn breed of cockroach, but it was hardly the worse place he’d ever stayed. 

He cleaned his jacket and gloves of blood, careful to remove all traces. Cleaning away the murder was surprisingly easy. The men from the illegal club were hardly likely to speak out, even if they did remember that Moran had followed him out. He had made sure to avoid CCTV and the hunting knife he had used was a common model, easily bought in any sporting store. 

Hamish felt nothing as he removed the evidence of his kill; Moran had deserved it. 

Deciding what to do next, however, would take some consideration. He removed his rifle from its hiding spot and started cleaning. The thing was as clean as possible, but he found something soothing in the familiar movements. 

***

The chance to prove himself came a week later. Moriarty rarely concerned himself with the ‘boring’ crimes, but he had a fierce dislike of crime lords trying to move into his territory. 

Joseph Haddock was just shy of a drug lord. He had a steadily building empire of Meth and Cocaine, and was setting his sights for London. 

Moriarty hated the man for his bad style and his lack of creativity, hardly a reason to kill a potential asset, but the man had never been the most reasonable. 

They were meeting at Haddock’s ridiculous country estate to talk fees. Haddock assumed he had the upper hand by meeting at his own estate; he had no idea his people had been bought out long ago. 

The estate was a sniper’s dream. It sat in a picturesque valley, surrounded by old trees. Hamish settled behind a boulder and bush, covered with a mix of camo blanket and leaves. He was 800 yards from his target, but had easy view of the patio in his scope. The systematic searching of the guards made avoiding them easy.

Moriarty and Haddock where sitting at the patio to tea like proper English gentlemen. They were so nicely placed; Hamish was certain Moriarty was expecting him. Seeing Moriarty in his scope, imagining his skull with one of his bullets in it, was a hopeless indulgence; it would not solve his problem. 

He settled into prone and watched the long stem flowers by the door. They barely moved in the wind. Hamish took aim at Haddock’s head, hoping to show off. He took a breath, released it, calculating for height, movement, and wind. He gave the trigger a gentle squeeze, not jerking it like he had been taught years ago. 

The shot was obnoxiously loud in the quite valley, impossible to silence something so powerful. 

Hamish watched the blood splatter in scope, the way Haddock jerked and slumped sideways in his seat. The tell tale red splay against the white siding of his house. 

Moriarty didn’t even look up, just continued to sip at his tea, undisturbed. 

Shoving away the dark rage in his chest, Hamish decided to better prove his worth. He slipped easily from the grounds, avoiding the frenzied guards. 

He had planned on reintroducing himself after the shot; instead he made his way back to London. 

Moriarty lived in a very expensive townhouse in a very expensive part of town, meant to look much less opulent then it was.  
Where Haddock had terrible location, Moriarty had chosen his residence with care. There were no tall buildings near by to shoot from, and well-guarded government officials owned the neighboring buildings. The yard was surrounded by tasteful, black rod-iron that was both sharply pointed and difficult to climb. The place was covered in hidden cameras and housed two, very angry, Doberman. 

Distracting the dogs required two steaks and some heavy sedatives. The cameras were the work of timing and athletics. 

Breaking into the house was another challenge. Circumventing alarms had never been a specialty of his, even if he could pick most locks within 60 seconds.

When he did get it, hopefully without setting any silent alarms he had missed. Hamish made tea. 

Moriarty entered the house just as he finished setting the tray. 

The man strolled in looking smooth and confidant, but his eyes gave away his surprise. 

“Thought I’d make myself at home,” Hamish handed over a cup of tea, made just like Moriarty liked it. 

“I was wondering where you got off to, Seb. I’m afraid Haddock’s associates were none to pleased to scrape his brain matter off the wall.”

“I’m sure you’re just devastated,” Hamish drawled, leaning against the counter. 

“Oh, no I’m quite pleased, I think I’ll offer you a job,” Moriarty beamed. 

“I don’t know, seems dangerous?”

“Very much so, you’ll fit right in.” Moriarty sipped his tea, seemingly unconcerned about poisoning. “Ex-military, sniper.”

Hamish nodded, even though it wasn’t a question. Moriarty was looking him up and down, a deductive gaze he was very familiar with. He knew the man would notice the tell tale callous on his thumb webbing from firing high-powered rifles. Military was written in his face, hands, and posture, even if his hair now grew in a shaggy blond mop. 

“You are going to live here, the room upstairs to the right I think,” he commented. 

Hamish blinked, startled. He hadn’t been expecting that. He put his tea down to stop from choking on it. “I’m quite certain your last Sebastian had his own home.” 

Moriarty slid into his space, “You’ll stay here.” He ran his fingers down the black patch on Hamish’s jacket, meant for shouldering guns. 

“I’ll stay here,” Hamish parroted, working to control his breathing and heart. 

Moriarty shot him a grin that was more a showing of teeth and flittered off. 

Hamish took a deep breath, “Guess I’m moving in.”

***

He was moved in that day, a lackey had been offered to help, but Hamish hardly needed assistance in moving a duffle, a computer bag, and a M40. 

Thankfully, the room on the right was not shared by Moriarty and was nicely sized. He spent a week trying to stop tensing his shoulders every time he entered the building. There were no dangerous meetings or assassinations. In fact, the only time he saw Moriarty that week was when the man dragged him along to a suit fitting. Hamish was now the owner of his very own Westwood. 

It was the weekend when things took a turn for the criminal. 

Moriarty brought him to a warehouse near the docks, not telling him why. 

He was led into a back room, enforced with a steel door and industrial soundproofing. The floor was slanted toward the walls, where four separate drains rested. There was a metal surgery table in the center of the room. A man was strapped to the table, held down by his arms and legs, with extra straps on his chest, waist, and knees. He was blindfolded. 

Hamish ran a quick look at him; _mid- thirties, three kids-all girls, loving-husband, MI5._

Moriarty placed his hands in the man’s hair and shook his head like a wayward puppy. “This is Special Agent Carson, he has some information I want. I need you to get it for me. He’s being so stubborn, our dear Carson. I’m sure you could loosen his tongue a bit.” 

Hamish looked at the side table, already set up with a gleaming array of knives and pliers. Hamish huffed, “I imagine I could, but not with this Bond movie crap.” 

The Madman purred, “Oh, not to your liking, what would please you?”

Hamish tugged a pen from his pocket, “I’ll write you a list.” 

On the table, Carson remained silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been dying to write this story for awhile, I'll try to keep things interesting. 
> 
> Bare with me if anything about the sniper rifle is wrong. I was in the Army and I know M-16's like the back of my hand, but that's because I spent something like a year and a half with one basically attached to me. However, I know nothing about sniper rifles or hand guns, so don't be knit-picky please.


	3. Could be Dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains, unwanted surgery.

_I want to be a doctor._

_Certainly better than the zookeeper you wanted to be in primary school._

_And I want to join the Army._

_John wouldn’t…_

_It’s not because of Dad… well not just because of Dad. I want to help people, save them._

_There are times when people cannot be saved._

_I know._

 

Hamish fiddled with the IV connector as he hooked up the saline to Carson. _“Don’t put your life in someone’s hands,”_ he hummed. He always hatted hooking up IV’s, but Carson had fantastic veins. When the he got the flash of blood he took the time to collect a 10ml syringe. It was just enough to fill the rainbow of tubes he had the Goons get for him. 

_“They’re bound to steal it away,”_ he continued, cutting away Carson’s shirt. 

“What are you doing?” Carson growled, his pulse had increased, but the 100 the heart beat monitor was reading was impressive. 

“Administering a localized anesthetic,” Hamish answered, just as he stuck the needle into the muscle on his lower right side. 

Carson flinched, his eyes were still covered and the jab must have been a shock. 

“You know I’ve never done this to someone that was awake before.” Hamish moved to the side sink and scrubbed his hands and forearms. He didn’t have anyone he trusted to help him prep, but that was okay. The tray by the table was nicely set for everything he needed. 

The heart monitor jumped when he made the incision. It was deep, 8 inches just below the ribs on the right side. 

Carson was slim, so there was little fat to move aside, only the red gleam of muscle with a few yellow nodules. 

_“Don’t hide your mistakes, cause they’ll find you, burn you,”_ He sang, cleaning away the blood with his suction tube. 

“You’re insane,” Carson cried, the edges of his blindfold were wet. 

“There is a high chance,” Hamish remarked, pulling the edges of the incision open with clamps. This was a lot harder without a nurse to assist. 

Clipping the right kidney from the body took time and patience. He had to seal off each blood vessel and deal with the ureter. 

Carson’s heart kept pounding and he was sweating profusely. To prevent shock or bleed out, Hamish ended up injecting a large dose of narcotics into the saline drip when his pulse hit 180. 

It took four hours and two close calls, before Hamish could tuck the detached kidney into the waiting ice chest. 

He stitched the wound, careful to leave a drainage tube, and disinfect the area. He replaced the empty saline bag with one filled with antibiotics. 

The two Goons stood outside the door, looking nervous. 

“Here, I think you have a place for this,” Hamish pushed the icebox and blood tubes at one of them. 

The Goon looked startled. “Sir?”

“I was told you have a patient ready for this, what did you expect me do, eat it?”

“No sir, er…Yes, sir we have a patient ready.”

“Good, don’t forget to give the doctor the blood,” Hamish scowled at the man. 

The man was 76 inches and twice his weight, but he scrambled away from Hamish like he was going to be joining Carson on the table. 

“You are just full of surprises, Seb,” Moriarty purred, coming up beside him. 

“I thought you’d appreciate a bit of multi-tasking,” Hamish remarked, absolutely not flinching. 

“I do, I do my dear, but do you think he will talk?”

Hamish shrugged, “Not this time, find someone who needs a left lung lobe. I’ll even him out a bit”

Moriarty stared at him for an uncomfortable moment. “Where did you come from?” He whispered sounding…awed. 

Hamish shifted, not sure how to answer, but Moriarty leaned up and nipped sharply at his ear. “I’ll find one for you, Seb,” the Madman whispered. 

Hamish was left standing in the hall, shaking. 

***

Carson made an excellent recovery. His other kidney took over, nicely. The wound drained clear to pale yellow pus and the antibiotics did their job. 

Hamish was able to remove the drainage tube after three days, but the catheter had to stay. 

Not once, did he remove the blindfold. 

He prepped for the second surgery on the fourth day. 

Carson shook in his restraints. “What will you take this time?”

“Don’t worry, I’m an excellent doctor,” Hamish patted his shoulder. To be safe, he prepped a bag of whole blood and injected a stronger local. 

This time Carson’s heart rate shot to 180 as soon as he made the cut. He had to inject a mild sedative or risk heart attack. 

Removal of the lung, even a lower lobe, was tricky. There were ribs and all sorts of vital organs to work around. Hamish hadn’t had this sort of challenge since he left the S.A.S. 

Eventually, he was sealing up his patient and inserting another drainage tube. This time the Goons, took his ice chest without all the bumbling idiocy. 

Hamish wasn’t surprised when Carson came down with the inevitable Staph infection, but he hit it hard with a dose of Vancomycin and kept the wounds clean. Dealing with infections was much easier when you only had one patient. 

Another four days after the lobectomy, Hamish started to prep for surgery. He didn’t have any intention of cutting into the man a third time, and he didn’t need too. Carson cracked. 

Moriarty grinned when he handed over the recording. “Well, I think we could have cracked him in a day or two with a pair of pliers and a hammer, but something must be said for style.”

“I thought you’d appreciate the artistry.” Hamish waved away the compliment, “I sedated him and wrapped the incisions. He can be dropped off now.”

“Dropped off? You wish to return him?” Moriarty asked, face carefully blank. 

Hamish had to play this right. “I can ensure you he is no threat, let the government understand you mean business.”

“I think you have a bit of a soft spot, my dear Doctor?”

Hamish shrugged, “Perhaps.”

Grinning like a loon, Moriarty waved over the two idiots. “Drop Agent Carson off at the Diogenes, and be careful of him, he just had surgery after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone ever checks my search history I'm going to be arrested as a serial killer. 
> 
> Also, today has been a surprisingly productive writing day. :D


	4. The Most Dangerous Man you’ll ever meet

Chapter Four: The Most Dangerous Man you’ll ever meet

 

_You have a brother!?_

_Don’t sound so excited, he’s unbearably dull._

_What does he do?_

_He’s the British Government._

_What?_

 

Mycroft moved through the twisting halls of the biggest hospital in London. In a very secluded area on the fourth floor, there was a section labeled Storage. It was in fact, the location of MI5’s personal doctors. 

Dr. Hart was in his office, a series of x-rays clipped to the backlights. “Mr. Holmes, I didn’t expect you to come in person.”

Mycroft shook the offered hand; “I was the one that sent Agent Carson into the field. It seemed prudent to check on his return.”

Dr. Hart gave a grim nod. “He only had two wounds when he was brought in; a long incision under his ribs on the right side, and a smaller incision higher up on the left. I had to take x-rays to determine the extent of the damage.” He waved at the two behind him.

Mycroft approached the light board, while he did not have experience reading x-rays, he could identify the missing pieces. “They removed his kidney and a part of his lungs.”

“They didn’t just remove it, they removed it expertly. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen such neat stitching. The person that did this wasn’t just a doctor he was a surgeon. There were small things that were a little odd, though. If I had to hazard a guess I would say only one person worked on this man. “

“Thank you, Doctor. May I speak with the patient?”

“His eyes are sensitive to light right now so we have the room dimmed. He’s on a low dose of anti-anxiety medication, but he is awake and relatively unharmed. Whoever did this took a great deal of care in leaving him alive. He’s been on strong antibiotics and his wounds have been carefully drained and cleaned.” Dr. Hart handed over Mycroft’s copy of the chart.   
Mycroft tucked the paperwork under his arm, and went down the small corridor of patient rooms. Agent Carson’s room only had a single light on and the blinds were pulled shut, but it was bright enough to see the man. 

He was pale and had lost weight, but he looked much better then Mycroft had expected when Anthea told him Carson had been dropped at the steps of the Diogenes Club like the morning paper. 

“Mr. Holmes,” Carson greeted, adjusting the remote on his bed so he was in more of a sitting position. 

“Forgive me for dredging up bad memories, but I thought it best to get the particulars over in one go,” Mycroft sat at the chair by the bed, placing a recorder down between them. He didn’t need the recorder personally, but Anthea would appreciate a proper recording to write up the reports. 

Carson shook his head, “I’m sorry, I didn’t even know what he was doing. When he came in the third time, I couldn’t… I told him everything. Now the doctor tells me I should recover fine. I won’t be able to stay in the field and the thought of having anything near or around my eyes is frankly petrifying, but…” He trailed off, clenching his fist in impotent rage. 

“I could scarce be angry, Agent Carson, MI5 certainly never trained you for this particular brand of torture. Can you tell me about the man that did this?” Mycroft asked. 

“I never saw him, Moriarty brought him on day one, I would recognize that man’s voice anywhere. The other I didn’t know from any of our files. He sounded young, very young. Moriarty asked him to get information from me and he just sneered at the things they had laid out, saying it wouldn’t work. He listed off a series of medical equipment. He clearly knew what he was talking about. He came back the next day, hooked up what I assume was an IV line and a catheter. He injected a local, washed his hands and started cutting. He hardly spoke, just hummed and sang like a psycho while he worked. “

“Did you recognize the songs?” Mycroft requested, sometimes the most obscure things where the most important. 

Carson shook his head, scowling. “No, it was rock of some sort, depressing alternative shite, like a teenager would listen too. “

“Did they give you a message when they dropped you off?”

“No, that was the weird thing. The man came back in and I was certain he was going to cut me up for body parts when he injected the sedative into my arm. I barely registered them leaving me at the club, I’m afraid I wasn’t very lucid until I got to the hospital.” Carson ran his fingers over the bandages on his chest, a strange look on his face.

“Thank you, Agent. I will personally insure your transfer to an acceptable desk assignment.” Mycroft stood, collecting his recorder. 

Carson gave a wry chuckle, “My wife will be thrilled I’m sure. Thank you, sir.”

***

When he returned to the office, Mycroft pulled out his file on Moriarty and spread the papers across his desk. 

When Agent Carson disappeared, they had no doubt who had him, but Moriarty’s usual torturer was Sebastian Moran. The man had been dishonorably discharged from the Army and had quickly been scooped up by the mad man, but Moran’s disemboweled corpse had been found over a month ago. 

Who was this new man? A surgeon of impressive skill, and young, judging by music taste and voice. 

Mycroft steepled his hands beneath his chin and pondered. 

It was Anthea that finally brought the information. 

“Sir, I have something you’ll want to see,” she called, knocking softly at the door.

“What did you find, my dear?”

She handed him a stack of high gloss pictures. He flipped through them, each a picture of the same man. He had blond hair, shaggy and wild like a college student. He looked between twenty and twenty-five, roughly 191cm, and 81kgs. Each picture had him in a different set of clothes that made him look like a completely different person. In one, a college student, in another a homeless man, and another as a rich businessman, but his baring was unmistakable – military. 

Something in him relaxed. In the last month Sebastian Moran was murdered, a drug dealer outside of London took a sniper shot to the head at 800 yards, and Agent Carson was tortured by a Surgeon with experience working alone. While he had met the man, clues had been starting to build up against Dr. Watson. 

“What do we have on him?” Mycroft asked, indicating the photos. 

“Records in the system have him listed as one John Harrison, but we had Q Branch go through the records, and the files appeared out of no where two months ago. They were well hidden, and expertly added, but traces will always be left when an entirely new life is added. CCTV shows the man first appearing with Moriarty sometime in the last month, but he evades the cameras with some skill. Closer reports say the man goes by the name Sebastian Moran.” Anthea read from her phone. 

“Was the other a decoy?” Mycroft asked, surprised. 

“No, Sir. The man left behind the illegal gambling ring in China Town was defiantly Sebastian Moran. The other man just slipped into his place, we have no record of him up to two months ago.”

Mycroft pressed his fingers to his chin, peering at the photos laid out in front of him. Something about the man’s baring seemed so familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Continue to gather information, I have a feeling he could cause trouble in the future. “

“Yes, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not a star trek cross over, his fake name is John Harrison because I'm a nerd. ;P


	5. A Bit Not Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: This chapter contains violence and some triggery descriptions.

_Have you ever killed someone?_

_Once._

_Who?_

_A man that threated your father, he wasn’t a nice man._

_Was it worth it?_

_Yes._

_What was his name?_

_Sebastian Moran._

 

Hamish started noticing the CCTV cameras turning in his direction, but he wasn’t worried. The Irene incident had not happened yet, Mycroft was hardly about to pick him up off the street. 

Dealing with Moriarty was another matter entirely. The man watched him like a shark, and dragged him along to every meeting and consultation he dealt with. Hamish knew from the old case files that Sebastian Moran was Moriarty’s most trusted sniper, but they were rarely seen together. This was getting ridiculous. 

He had barely walked through the door, before the man was pulling him back out. 

“Come along Seb, we have some uppity Libyans to deal with,” Moriarty tugged him along. 

“Libyans, honestly?” Hamish raised a sarcastic brow. 

Moriarty offered him a toothy grin; “I get so tetchy when young upstarts move into my neighborhood.”

“Because you’re such an old man.”

“London is my city, I prefer to keep her clean,” Moriarty’s gave a dangerous smirk. 

The rest of the ride passed in silence. Hamish watched as the nice houses of upper end slowly bled into the rougher parts of southern London. 

They were led to a flat in a rough part of town, though the flat itself was probably one of the best looking buildings in the area. Various clues showed the Libyans had moved in quickly, evicting the last gang and moving in with force. There was a spatter of gunshot by the front door that must have been a result of the eviction. 

Two of Moriarty’s regular goons forced open the door and cleared the way. Hamish was pleased to never have to do this; his time in the Army had left him with a great distaste for building clearing. As always, he followed behind Moriarty. He was armed with a Browning, but kept his hands at his sides, not touching the weapon, but ready to draw at a moments notice. 

The outside of the flat was not terrible, but the inside reeked like old blood and cat piss. The walls were scratched and dented, the paint flaking. Hamish resisted covering his nose by force of will. 

The Libyans were in the kitchen; apparently the goons had interrupted a game of cards. 

Hamish wasn’t sure what he expected them to be dealing with that caught Moriarty’s attention. He guessed at drugs and weapons, but he didn’t expect the three cowering women against one wall. They were of various ages and races; Hamish deduced them out of habit.

The first was Asian-Chinese, twenty-two, in London for foreign exchange program, has a boyfriend back home, missing for two weeks. Bruises on neck, shoulders, and thighs suggest sexual assault. 

The second was Spanish, twenty-five, moving to London for job, single-mother, grandparent’s watching child until she gets settled. Bruising suggest she escaped at one point, one and half week captivity, and sexual assault. 

The third was British, seventeen, visiting London from the country; parents think she ran away from home. Very little bruising, but heavily drugged, the Libyans are hoping to sell her for a higher price as a virgin and have resisted touching her. 

Something in him cracked, the dark angry thing he had shoved into a hidden place after Syria was breaking free. The _bloodpainsweat, ‘please God, let me live’_ from that dank terrible shack in the Syrian wilderness was never suppose to be let back out. But one of the girls was crying; huge, silent tears running down her filthy cheeks because she knows the new men in the room are not the saviours she has been praying for. 

Hamish turns to the men, trying to cage the _killripslaughterdestroy_. There are three of them as well, one to corral each girl apparently, though marks in the kitchen show the place is usually much more busy. Moriarty must have wanted these three the most. 

The deductions are terrible. One is married with kids, he beats his wife regularly, but she won’t leave because he scares her. He’ll start on hitting the kids when they get older, no matter how much he promises other wise. Another is young and stupid, but has killed at least three men and sees no problem in raping the women or selling them for profit. One isn’t married, but has a thing for little boys and girls and did horrible, awful things in Libya but hasn’t had the chance to hunt in London yet. He’s been touching the girls the most because he can’t get to the kids. The last one is the leader and Hamish feels bile grow sharp and choking in the back of his throat. 

Moriarty starts in on one of his tangents, but Hamish has steel wool scraping in his brains and doesn’t hear him. 

He isn’t thinking straight when he grabs the leader by his neck and hauls him up like a particularly disgusting piece of refuse. He flings him on the table and holds him down with a series of zip ties he always keeps in his back pocket – a hold over from father. 

The table is just the right length and surprisingly sturdy. Neither the goons nor Moriarty stops him, which is probably the only thing that could have prevented what followed. He pulls out his tools, a leather case of various scalpels and medical instruments that Moriarty presented to him after the Carson business. 

He pulls out the most common scalpel, an inch long with a slightly curved blade. The man on the table might be screaming, but Hamish isn’t paying much attention. He puts his favored weapon to the side so he can cut the man’s clothing off with a pair of medical shears. 

As he expected, the man has a trail of tattoos on his arms that marks every young body he tore apart. Hamish clapped his hand over the man’s mouth and squeezed, feeling the bones beneath his grip. “Do you remember them? At night when you don’t have to face yourself in the mirror, do you remember all the little children you ruin?” He’s snarling at the man, drawing his blade along the right arm. 

Hamish releases his hold, long enough to hear pleas for mercy and denials of the attacks. Then he starts cutting. 

Things go a little black after that.

When Hamish’s mind settles back into his body, it’s because the sack of meat in front of him has finally stopped breathing. He’s not sure how long he’s been at it, but he has flayed flesh and removed the bones in the man’s hands and feet. He castrated him and removed the tattooed reminders of his conquests. 

When he looks around, the other two men are already dead, throats cut. They are lying in a pile of vomit and piss, however, so the goons must have waited before doing it. The goons are gone, though he is not sure weather they fled or were sent away. 

Moriarty is still there, standing behind him and looking intrigued. 

The poor girls are shaking, scared stiff, and incapable of even screaming. Though they whimper under his focused gaze. 

“Not quite the message I was going to send, but much more effective,” Moriarty comments, sounding pleased. 

Hamish stares at him, wide-eyed and dumb, his brain wasn’t firing correctly, he was short-circuiting. 

“I’m guessing you have an opinion about the girls?”

Hamish nods, taking a moment to force moisture back down his throat. “I… please…uh… their families, please return them to their families.” His voice comes out raw and scratchy like an old man. 

Moriarty snaps his fingers and four goons appear like they’d multiplied through mitosis. “You two take care of this mess. I want it clean of evidence, but leave everything for the locals. I think our message is clear. You two get these girls taken care of. They are to be unharmed and returned home.”

The men stare at Hamish like he’s a wild animal fit to charge, not a terrible assumption, all things considered. 

Moriarty slings a long coat over his bloodied shirt and pulls/pushes him to the car. He follows. 

“Which was it, your mother or your father?” Moriarty asks. 

Hamish blinks at him, “What?”

Moriarty rolls his eyes, but grins like it’s all good fun. “Which one died when you were younger, your mother or your father?”

“Both, my mum died in child birth, my dad a few years later,” he answers. His mother was a non-entity, a person that existed in the abstract, but he would never forget his dad. With his different teas and his warm jumpers and perfect hugs. No one ever hugged the way dad did, like he could shut out the world. 

“You’ve got quite the protective streak, I see,” he teased. 

Hamish watched the man, brow scrunched, because Moriarty was crazier than he was, and he had just entered into a PTSD episode that resulted in him skinning a man. Christ, he was in over his head. “He was a bad man,” he offered with a shrug, incapable of much else. 

Back at the house, Moriarty took the lead, dragging him into the master bathroom. The Master bathroom contained a tub that could fit four people and a rain shower capable of supporting a small conga line. 

Moriarty was half way to unbuttoning his shirt, when he came back to himself. 

“Sir,” Hamish said, taking hold of the hand at his buttons. 

“Call me Jim,” he grins, pushing past the hold. 

His shirt is a riot of blood and human bits and he just wants it off, so he tosses it to the floor when Jim is done. 

He knows the man is reading him. His back and front are a serious of lash scars and tiny parallel nicks from a Syrian with a lot of time on his hands. There’s a scar on his arm from a near-miss bullet wound and a tiny raised bump from the removal of his appendix. There are the small scratches he’d earned as a kid in Sherlock’s school of lock picking, and the weird X over his collarbone from Uncle Greg’s lesson in wrestling that went pear-shaped when he hit the living-room table. 

He’s never felt more naked in his life, and he’s still wearing pants. “Uh, I need to take a shower, clean up,” Hamish says, trying to suggest ‘please leave.’

“Yes, I think you do,” and then Jim’s fingers are at his trousers, pulling them open with some skill. 

Hamish hesitates, which gives Jim enough time to tug his pants down. He steps out of them from habit. He doesn’t want Jim observing him like this, but getting close would make his job easier. 

Jim pulls his clothing off with out seduction, merely throwing the pile into a corner and pulling Hamish into the shower. 

Its warm instantly, and there is water everywhere. It’s the best shower he has ever been in and the most uncomfortable, but while Jim’s leer is sexual, his actions are not. 

Hamish allows himself to be manhandled. He lets Jim scrub the blood from his skin and when it is time to do his hair, he gets on his knees before the man and lets him message his scalp. He endures a series of soaps and bath washes that he never uses himself, but somehow get the blood off his skin and the scent of rust from his nose. 

When he is clean, he turns to Jim and watches him. The crime lord is only half hard, but he runs his eyes over Hamish like a prized horse.

“Return the favor,” the man orders, handing over the shampoo with a ridiculous flick of his wrist. 

Hamish does as he’s told, washing Jim exactly as he was except he is tall enough to not need him on his knees, pity. 

When they have dried off –involving a full body dryer that is just weird- Jim pulls him into his king-sized bed and does not let him go. 

Hamish spends the night staring at the ceiling. Somehow, he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not fret, Hamish is not going evil, this chapter is required for character development and plot set up. 
> 
> Also, I have a feeling I messed up my tenses somewhere in this chapter, but I'm to tired to worry about it.


	6. Somebody Loves You

Chapter Six: Somebody Loves You

_Da, where are we going?_

_To get a cuppa._

_But I hate tea._

_Hmm, maybe we should stop at the hospital first; I think they gave me the wrong kid._

_Daaaaaaddddd._

_Come on, scamp you’ll like this one._

_What is it?_

_Chai._

_It’s still tea._

_Just try it._

_Oh._

_Good, huh?_

_It’s like Christmas!_

 

Hamish woke to the touch of fingers along his back and warm breath against his ear. It took him a moment to remember his surroundings. The adrenaline fallout from the day before had given him a deep sleep. 

“Good Morning, Seb,” Jim greeted. He tugged at his shoulder, making Hamish lay on his back. 

Hamish made himself stay still as Jim sat on his chest, basically pinning him to the bed. Not that Hamish couldn’t break the skinny Irishman like a twig, but it was a vulnerable position. 

“Tell me what happened,” Jim asked, running his fingers along the parallel cuts that marked his time in Syria. 

“Can’t you tell?”

“While I know torture when I see it, I do not, in fact, possess the ability to read minds,” Jim ran his finger along the last cut, it had been the deepest and trailed off down his chest instead of staying a line. 

“It was a solo mission, I screwed up and got captured, these are the results,” Hamish shrugged. 

“He was interrupted here, what did you do?” Jim asked, taping the trailing scar.

“I ripped his throat out. He got too close, grew cocky. The only weapon I had was my own teeth, and I had to bite deep or the others would have heard him. I made a mess.” It had been a last second decision; a moment where his will to live overpowered everything else. 

“Then the Army let you go?”

He nodded. “They gave me an honorable discharge, though the paperwork lists something ridiculous like ‘physical trauma’. Killing the man with my teeth would have been distasteful, but not enough to get me discharged. It was the mess I made getting back to my unit that got me kicked out.”

“What did you do,” Jim grinned, leaning down so they were pressed chest to chest. 

“I lost my mind,” was all he could answer. His commander had shown him the pictures when they had forced him to sign his release paperwork. He didn’t remember any of it. 

“Well now you are mine. My own vicious attack dog.” Jim looked crazed, and Hamish wondered if he was being compared to his Dad. Was Jim jealous of Sherlock and John? That would certainly explain the end game. 

Hamish attempted a rumbling growl, deep in his chest. “Sometimes I bite when I shouldn’t.”

“No, I think you know exactly when to bite,” Jim nipped at his collarbone in teasing, than he was getting up, leaving the bed with a stretch. “I want you to take the day off, go do something…fun” he flicked his wrist lazily.

“You don’t want me leashed to your side?” Hamish asked, shifting so he was leaning against the headboard. The bed was much too comfortable to bother with much else. 

“Would you wear my collar, hmm?”

“It would have to be a very nice one,” Hamish teased, though he desperately hoped that’s all it was. He would endure the flirting and the lack of personal space to accomplish his goals, but Jim’s intentions were difficult to read. 

“Of course, but I have some more personal business ventures to deal with this morning. I will hardly need your particular skills, go amuse yourself,” Moriarty stepped into bathroom, discussion over. 

Hamish spent the first hour of his time off, going back to sleep. He was exhausted, and the bed was like sleeping on a cloud. He must have been very tired, because he didn’t wake up when Jim left for the day. 

It was strange to go down stairs and there be absolutely no one in the house. He took sometime hacking into the computer system to go through Moriarty’s files, but the man kept most things in his own mind. The files he did find, he sent off to Mycroft through a complicated combination of proxy servers and codes. 

Jim, not being an idiot, had quite a few monitors on his computer for hacking, but as long as you knew they were there, they were easy to circumnavigate or trick. 

He took his time leaving the computer, making sure to wipe the keyboard and check for any fallen hairs. 

He had other things he could check on, but Hamish was near shaking with the need to be out of the house. To just wander the streets of London, which is exactly what he did. 

He walked a convoluted path to a little café about four blocks from New Scotland Yard. It was a long walk, but it did wonders for calming the twitchy, confined feeling. 

The café was exactly as he remembered it. It had been his Dad’s favorite and one of the few places Hamish remembered being with him. They made their Chai tea from scratch, simmering a massive pot of spices and black tea to perfection. He ordered a large, inhaling the enticing scent that always reminded him of family and Christmas. 

He walked down familiar roads, roads that would barely change in the years to come. New Scotland Yard is a bright shinning thing, and he stands in front of it and marvels until he has to leave or risk drawing attention. He walks by the Tesco his Dad always used. A cab will plow through the front window in a few years and it will take them ages to fix it, but it’s still the same. 

He takes a back alley to avoid Baker street, he’s not sure he has the strength to walk by 221B. Which is, of course, how he runs into his dad.   
John Watson is holding four heavy grocery bags and is surrounded by three thugs with knives. Judging by their appearance, Hamish deduces the thugs to be the last of a crime ring Sherlock and John put into jail a week prior. 

John could probably take them, but he’s looking at the shopping like he desperately doesn’t want to put it down on the filthy alleyway. Which probably means one of the bags contains milk and tea. Hamish resists the urge to laugh.

“Hey, what do we have here then?” He is completely unarmed, but he doesn’t need a weapon to take care of these idiots. 

“Carry on, this is none of your business,” one of them barks. He barely looks nineteen, and he’s holding the knife so tightly his knuckles are white. 

One of the others turns to take care of him and stops dead. “Hey…uh…guys.” 

Hamish finds himself face to face with the thugs and they look petrified. 

“We…uh…we didn’t mean anything man, uh sir, we didn’t mean no harm, honest,” one of them babbles. 

Hamish is certain that he isn’t widely known as Moriarty’s right hand man, but he had made his rounds enough that these boys could know of him. He gestures behind him, “No harm done, off with you.”

The thugs run off like they are being chased. 

“Not very bright are they,” Hamish grins, pointing at the CCTV at the corner of the alley. 

John is glaring at him, looking somewhere between suspicious and pleased. They must have been out of tea at 221B for a while if he was that protective of his groceries. 

Hamish gives a cheeky grin. He’s so pleased his heart is pounding. The last time he saw his Dad he was dead in a hospital bed. Now he is young and healthy, his hair more blonde than grey. He is wearing more layers of jumper and shirts than any man could ever need and Hamish is holding back from hugging him by a thread. 

Since, John isn’t shooting him (the browning is tucked against his back) Hamish assumes Mycroft hasn’t shared his picture yet. Good. 

“You need some help with those,” Hamish holds out his hand for a bag, even as he’s kicking himself. John seeing him is one thing, going to 221B and seeing Sherlock is a different matter entirely. 

“I don’t know, those boys seemed rather frightened of you,” John remarked, looking decidedly not frightened. 

Hamish winked, “Its all in the jumper.” He tugged at the soft blue one he was wearing. It had been a birthday gift from father. 

John laughed. “Just petrifying,” he hands over two of his bags, like Hamish had just passed a test. Hamish knows the real test will be John getting him in front of Sherlock. Tricky. 

He walked the familiar way back to Baker Street at John’s side. His dad kept shooting him furtive glances. “How’d you manage to get surrounded by those three, I imagine they weren’t after your groceries?” Not asking any questions would probably be strange. 

“Ah, job hazard,” John chuckled.

“Oh,” Hamish raised a brow, “must be a dangerous job.”

“A bit,” John grinned as they walked up to 221 Baker Street. “Here I am, you want to come up for a cuppa, least I can do.”

Hamish should say no, he should hand John his bags and leave. Instead he says, “Yeah, sounds great.”

They head up the 17 steps, as familiar to Hamish as his own hand. John leads him into the flat. 

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, plucking at his violin. He’s in his usual sharp clothing, so he isn’t quite in a sulk. “Trouble at Tesco, honestly John,” he comments.

Hamish can feel the sharp eyes tearing him apart, but he ignores it. Putting the groceries in the kitchen next to John’s bags. The table is laden with chemistry equipment, and Hamish can see the remnants of a fungal experiment. 

“Its not my fault you pissed off the Barnfield Boys,” John rolled his eyes, but his voice was filled with fond exasperation. 

Hamish felt his heart swell; he had missed his parents’ strange form of domesticity. 

“You were in the military, abroad but not Iraq or Afghanistan,” Sherlock remarks, coming over so he can get a better look at him. 

“I was, yes. Haircut give me away?” 

Sherlock look startled for a moment, but hid it well. “ You ran across John on accident, but you are hiding something. You know who we are.”

“Everyone hides something, after all, John probably wouldn’t appreciate you sneaking cigarettes when you are supposed to be quitting. “ He tipped his head to them both, lifting an imaginary hat in mock salute. “Thanks for the offer of tea, John, but I best be off.” He hurried down the steps, needing to get out of the flat, before he did anything more idiotic. 

He half expected to hear them following after him, but he just heard John yelling. Apparently he took Sherlock sneaking a smoke seriously. He left the flat in a mad twist of roads, taking a winding path before slipping into a cab and heading back to the house. 

His heart was pounding and he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. He knew he looked like a giddy schoolboy. 

Jim was sitting in the kitchen looking over reports on his phone. “You must have had a good day. “

“I had a fantastic day, thank you,” Hamish said, snagging a biscuit from Jim’s plate. “Hmm chocolate,” he grinned, taking a bite, “I’m going to change, do you need me for anything.”

“No, and I left a surprise in your room, you should appreciate it,” Jim beamed. 

Hamish finished his biscuit to hide his worry. A surprise? He opened the door with some trepidation. 

There was a woman in his bed. 

No, The Woman was in his bed. 

She was naked, stretched across his sheets like a platter to be sampled. 

“You must be Sebastian,” She purred. 

She was a master of her craft, but Hamish was a master of his. He could read her fear in the contracting of her pupils and the pulse at her throat. What had Moriarty told her?

Trying to calm her, he gave a smile and an exaggerated bow. “And you must be Irene Adler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a great love of Chai tea, can you tell? :D


	7. Dinner?

Chapter Seven: Dinner?

 

_Are you going to marry my father?_

_What makes you ask that?_

_He likes you._

_Some people can love many in their lifetime, but your father will go to his grave loving your dad._

_Oh…_

 

Hamish had met Irene Adler when he was ten years old, and it had been love at first sight. She was just shy of her fifties, but she was still ‘The Woman’, the one who bested the Holmes brothers. 

She had stayed at 221B for a month, driving Mrs. Hudson crazy and distracting his father at every opportunity. Hamish had clung to her, dragging her all over London and showing her all the secret spots his father had shown him. 

It was strange to see her now, younger, but just as dangerous. 

“When Jim said he had a gift for me, I have to admit, you were not what I was expecting.” Hamish gave a sheepish grin and perched on the edge of the bed.

“I was rather surprised to find the last Sebastian was no longer with us,” Irene commented, she was very careful not to stiffen at his proximity. 

“It’s a competitive market,” he shrugged. “You can get dressed,” he gestured to the clothing folded in the corner, “while I’m certain you are quite good at your job, I have no interest in your personal brand of pleasure. Considering our conversation this morning, I can’t decide if Jim was trying to insult me, or just being funny.”

Irene raised an elegant brow. “Oh,” she prompted. 

Hamish watched her slip into her dress; she was as difficult to read as he remembered. “I’ve been beaten often enough, I have no urge to have it done recreationally.” He knew he was giving too much away, Irene did not need to know these things, and he still wasn’t certain why Jim sent her. 

“While I have a certain repertoire, I was told to give you whatever you wanted,” Irene said. Her shoulders were tense, Jim must have threatened her. Still, she sat back on the bed, carefully displayed. “Tell me, Sebastian, are you sleeping with him?” 

Hamish grinned at her, he couldn’t help it, even threatened, Irene was trying to gather information. “No, but I rather think he wants to. Do you think you’re a test? I can’t decide if Jim would be horribly jealous or completely ambivalent. “

Irene laughed, and then looked surprised at herself. “Well…” she covered her mouth to hide her smile, “that is the question.”

In an impulse Hamish would probably kick himself for later, he asked, “Have dinner with me?”

Irene watched him, searching his face for some clue of his intentions. “Alright,” she purred. 

Hamish stood and offered his hand, “I know just the place.”

He took Irene to Angelo’s because he was an idiot. The place was hardly high class, and Angelo had no idea who he was. Hamish grinned like an errant schoolboy the whole time. 

Irene looked skeptical about the whole thing.

“Order the tortellini, I promise, this is much better than the stuffy place down the road, besides their kitchen has rats.”

“You are very strange,” Irene remarked.

“So, I’ve been told,” Hamish smiled, enjoying himself. The last few months had been stressful, being around an old friend was nice, even if she didn’t know who he was. 

“How did you wind up with our mutual employer, you don’t seem the usual type?”

Hamish shrugged, “I made an impression. I’m not usually this ridiculous, you must bring it out in me.”

“Hmm, I’ve been accused of such before, but usually a riding crop is involved,” Irene said, clearly trying to hide how pleased she was. Even in her career, she had a weakness for compliments. She took a bite of her tortellini and then blinked in surprise. “Oh, this is good!”

“Told you,” Hamish pointed out Angelo, “Despite his interesting past, Angelo is an excellent chef.”   
“Interesting, how?” 

“Let’s just say Angelo has an affinity for locks,” Hamish hid his smile behind a bite of Carbonara. 

Dinner went smoothly, luckily free of Sherlock or Mycroft. 

Hamish offered his elbow as he walked Irene down the street. “Should I walk you home?”

“You know, you could be anywhere from 17 to 30, its very distracting,” Irene commented, though she looked pleased at the challenge. 

“I enjoy the mystery.” Hamish had used his appearance to his advantage quite often, it’s amazing what the right choice of clothes and posture could do for a disguise. 

“I think I shall make my own way home, thank you for dinner,” Irene kissed his cheek before hailing a cab. 

“Please keep your guard up, I think things are going to get very dangerous soon,” Hamish pleaded, hoping she could read his sincerity. 

She gave a coy wink, “My guard is always up, don’t fret, Love.” 

Hamish stayed until her cab turned onto another street. He gave the CCTV watching him a wave before heading back. 

Jim was waiting for him in the kitchen. “You didn’t sleep with her.”

Hamish couldn’t hide his glare; “I find it rather disturbing that you thought a recovering torture victim with PTSD would enjoy the talents of a dominatrix.” 

“Oh, you knew of her?” Jim sounded honestly surprised. 

He resisted the urge to curse; of course he shouldn’t have known her name or profession. Irene Adler was hardly the sort of woman a poor Army Doctor would run across. “I’ve heard whispers, it wasn’t a difficult leap,” he said, trying on the arrogant scoff his father was fond of. 

Jim didn’t look skeptical, if fact, his entire visage was hard to read. 

“I’m going to bed, its been a long day,” Hamish said, walking around the man before this conversation got out of hand. 

Jim gripped his arm, fingers digging into the skin. “Sleep in my bed, I want you close.”

Hamish stared at the man, trying to determine what he wanted. This was getting ridiculous. “You told me this morning you couldn’t read minds, well neither can I. What is it you are trying to accomplish?”

Jim released him, offering an impish smile. “No, no, Seb, that would be telling.”

Hamish marched up the stairs in simmering rage. It took a long shower and many deep breaths to calm back down. When he slid into Jim’s bed, the crime lord was still down stairs. Hamish fell asleep waiting for him to make his move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter sort of got away from me, it did not go in the direction I was aiming at all. 
> 
> Also I finally started back up at school so chapters will be more sporadic. The university decided research papers would a great addition to the curriculum.


	8. Strong Moral Principle

Chapter Eight: Strong Moral Principle 

_Father is being an idiot._

_Is this a new development?_

_He’s been playing the violin for 24 hours._

_Oh, well it is that time of the year._

_What?_

_Your parents met this time of the year, fifteen years ago._

This was an absolute disaster. In less than twenty-four hours, Sebastian Moran had made contact with John Watson, Sherlock, and was seen out with Irene Adler. Mycroft was furious. 

How had a single man managed to slip through the hordes of security around 221B without so much as a blip? 

Revealing any information about Moriarty to his brother was a bad idea, but he could not allow a situation like the day before to repeat itself. Resigned, Mycroft made his way up the 17 steps to 221B. 

The door, as usual, was unlocked. Sherlock was perched in his chair, violin clenched to his chest. He immediately broke into a lively rendition of “Dying Cat” at the sight of him. 

Mycroft took the seat across from him and waited. Not long after, John appeared with a tray of tea and a scathing glare for his flat mate. 

Sherlock gave the instrument a few more shrieks in childish rebellion, before setting the bow down. “I won’t take any of your cases Mycroft, I’m much to busy.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh. Sherlock had not had a case in two weeks. “I did not bring you a case brother, in fact I brought you some information I think you will find most enlightening.” He placed a plain, manila folder on the table between them, before gathering his cup of tea. For a man with only bagged tea and a biohazard of a kitchen, John made an excellent brew. 

Sherlock glared at the folder for an entire minute, before snatching it up. Mycroft knew he would only find a single page in the folder. A high-gloss image of the new Sebastian Moran in a Westwood suit, scanning the area as Jim Moriarty exited the car behind him. 

John came around the chair, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder at the image. “That was the man I met yesterday. What was that, then? Recon?”

“I’m afraid I do not currently hold that information Dr. Watson. That man is currently known as Sebastian Moran, which is a confirmed alias. Our files list him as one, John Harrison, which has proved to be planted. He appeared almost two months ago, entered into the highest levels of Moriarty’s organization and we know next to nothing about him. Except, and I think you will appreciate the irony, he appears to be an Army Doctor with the skills of a trained sniper.”  
Sherlock scowled. “While I don’t doubt the incompetency of the government, Mycroft, I would think you could gather a bit more than that.” 

Mycroft moved the tip of his brolly from side to side as he contemplated what to share with his brother. “ Two months ago, a body was found outside of a Chinese gambling ring, gutted with a hunting knife. The body was confirmed as Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s head sniper and one of the men from the pool incident. The man in that picture took the name when he started to work with Moriarty; however, he is very much a different sort of threat. The original Moran was prone to gambling and bouts of rage, an easy target.”

John sat on the arm of the chair, completely unaware of the domestic scene he presented beside his brother. “This new one is more dangerous?”

“One of my agents was captured and held for two weeks. When we were certain he was dead, he was dropped on the steps of the Diogenes Club missing a kidney and part of his lung. The man was held awake and blindfolded while this Sebastian expertly removed the organs for transplant. This suggests a level of patience neither Moriarty nor the old Moran possessed.” Mycroft had not been certain until this moment that he was going to reveal the newest information about the man, but if he could not impress the danger on Sherlock he could at least put Dr. Watson on his guard. 

“That isn’t an easy surgery, was he assisted?” John asked. 

Mycroft shook his head as he placed his second folder on the table. “These are the results of Sebastian Moran being released on the head of the Libyan gang that has been causing you so much trouble. It took less than an hour.”

Sherlock grabbed the folder before John could, flicking through the pictures. “This man was a pedophile, these marks, while skilled, where made in rage,” he commented.

Mycroft held in a curse only through years of practice. Sherlock looked very interested. “The leader was attempting to break into a human trafficking ring in London, this was Moriarty’s message to the rest of the gang. The three girls were dropped off at the police station not long after.” 

Sherlock grinned, wide and cunning. “Did you interview them?”

Mycroft had, he was infuriated that he could not pin down a motive for this man. “I must return to the office, but I will leave this with you,” he placed the recorder on the table and stood. It was always best to let Sherlock work through these sort of puzzles alone, well, alone with John. 

***  
Sherlock waited until he heard the downstairs door close before clicking play.

John shifted from his spot on the chair arm to sit on the chair Mycroft had vacated. “Is it just me, or did he seem worried?”

“Well observed John, now hush,” Sherlock gestured towards the recorder. It hissed with static before Mycroft’s smug voice came over it. 

“Miss Lin could you please walk me through what happened when the new men came to the flat?”

The woman’s voice was shaky, but determined. “There were four men, the blond, a shorter Irish man, and two men in suits that looked like bodybuilders or bodyguards I guess.” 

There was a ruffle of static as someone shifted. 

“The Irish man seemed to be the leader, he started to talk about how Tareq, that was the head of the gang, should have known better about moving into business in London. The blond interrupted him, like he was…possessed. He grabbed Tareq around the throat and strapped him to the table. He was yelling at him, accusing him of all sorts of things,” there was a sniffle, ‘then he started cutting.”

“What sort of things?” Mycroft asked. 

“Hurting little boys and girls, of hurting us. He was right … about us. Tareq was the worst, but I don’t know how he knew. It was terrible to watch, he flayed him apart, but I’m not sad. He deserved it, they all deserved what happened,” Lin was breathing heavy over the recording.

“What happened after?”

“I thought… I was certain they were going to kill us, or sell us. The Irish man asked the blond what he wanted to do with us. I thought he was going to… I thought he was going to hurt us too, but the blond made him promise to send us home. I didn’t believe it until the bodyguards dropped us off at the police station. Just like that, they didn’t even touch us.”

There was another sniffle and then the recording broke into hissing static as the girl started to sob. 

John turned it off. “Christ.”

“It seems our mysterious Sebastian Moran, has quite the depth,” Sherlock was beaming, pleased at a new puzzle.  
“I still don’t get why he showed up at the house. It seemed like he used his own form of deduction. Was he just gathering information?” John looked intently at the image of Sebastian. 

“It seems that Moriarty’s new pet is following his own agenda, interesting.” Sherlock tucked his hands under his chin in his usual thinking pose. He walked through his mind palace, digging up the brief meeting of the man. 

The deductions gathered where the same as last time, calluses and build showing military service. No obvious tan lines to show time spent in Iraq or Afghanistan, but he suspected the man had been deployed abroad. The man’s accent was central London, but that could be faked. 

“John!” He called, jumping from the couch. 

John stuck his head from the kitchen, brow raised in question.

“We are going to pay a visit to southern, London,” Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf.

John snatched his jacket from it’s peg and slipped the Browning into the small of his back. “This is a terrible idea,” John muttered, grinning like an idiot. 

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock called over his shoulder, taking the stairs two at a time. 

John snorted, following after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not my favorite, but it is done.
> 
> On a side note, has anyone watched the movie Young Sherlock Holmes. Its old and kinda derby, but it has Sherlock and John meeting in school, having a case, and suggests that they meet again as adults. Its kinda cute, because its Sherlock that makes John braver. There are some other things that are odd, but I like the idea of them meeting as kids and then meeting again as adults.


	9. A Fan

Chapter Nine: A Fan

_Your Dad was a good man, best I’ve ever known._

_Sometimes I wonder why they were together._

_Sherlock is a great man, but with your Dad, he was a good one; and your Dad was a good man, but with Sherlock he was a great one._

_Oh . . .I’ve never heard it put like that._

_Seeing the two of them together, it was something that defied words._

 

It had been two weeks since the visit to the flat in southern London. The body had been cleaned away, but the table and floor had been coated with blood, blackened with age and crackling like bad paint. 

Further study had shown the locked room the girls had been kept in, thin blankets for bedding and a bucket for a bathroom. There had been a little flap under the door for food. 

John had never felt so conflicted about a crime scene. Sherlock had looked over the bodies in the morgue and confirmed the list of horrible things the men had done. The leader, who had been skinned and castrated alive before dying of blood loss, was wanted for 13 counts of child molestation in his home country. 

If he had been put face to face with the man, John’s not sure he wouldn’t have been tempted into something similar. The question was ‘why’? Why did Sebastian Moran torture and kill the man? Was it under Moriarty’s orders, or, like Sherlock, had he deduced the horror of his crimes and decided to do something about it? 

The thought of Moriarty’s henchman having Sherlock’s deductive skills was frankly petrifying. 

That, however, was not the current problem.

The current problem was one Irene Adler, ‘The Woman’. 

After a rather strange fight in an alley, John and Sherlock found themselves in Irene’s parlor, with Irene being very, _very_ naked.

“I had imagined this playing out very differently, but I’m rather afraid I have a favor to pay,” Irene smirked, perched in her chair like the Queen. 

“Oh, and who would you owe a favor too?” Sherlock asked, looking unbearably smug. 

John thought they rather looked like posturing general’s reading for battle, or peacocks, defiantly peacocks. 

“You would be surprised,” Irene said. 

“I really wouldn’t. Moriarty I presume.”

Irene laughed, covering her blood-red lips with a delicate hand. “Oh you are good, but no. I owe a favor to one Sebastian Moran, or, at least, the current one.”

Sherlock blinked, the only sign of his surprise. “Moran? How could you possibly owe him a favor?” 

“Well, perhaps not a favor, but I do appreciate a man that knows how to treat a lady, even if he had a rather steep request.” 

“What did he ask for?” John injected, tired of watching the two preen at each other. 

Irene turned to him, looking like an owner whose dog had done something surprising. “He asked me to tell you the truth, which is a rather large request when it also involves lying to Jim Moriarty.” 

“And what is this so called truth?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward. He could hardly mask the interest on his face. 

“The truth, is this is all a ploy to get you to uncover the code I have on my phone. A code that involves your brother and could very easily get me the protection I need to stay away from our hmm… mutual friend.” There was the slightest of tremors in Irene’s hand. 

“Why would Sebastian Moran being telling you this, and what could he have done to ensure such loyalty from you?” Sherlock was grinning; it was like ‘A Study in Pink’ all over again. 

“My loyalty is none of your concern. All you need to know is that Sebastian Moran is much more than he appears, and for some inexplicable reason, Moriarty is quite taken with him. Though I think I understand it a bit more, seeing you here with the good Doctor. 

“Genius needs an audience,” John muttered, thinking of his first trip to Angelo’s. 

Irene smiled at him, less demure maiden and more deadly predator. “Yes, though Sebastian is less an audience and more an intriguing enigma. I was certain Sherlock Holmes was the only one capable of holding Jim’s attention, but he seems to have strayed recently.” 

“The game is changing,” Sherlock said.

“And the only one that holds the rules is the only one who doesn’t seem to be playing,” Irene remarked.

“What do you mean about that?’ John asked. Moran seemed to be playing them all. 

“Oh, trust me, whatever Sebastian is up too, playing isn’t it.” 

***

In an alarming turn of events, that involved hostile Americans and a safe rigged with a gun. Irene turned over the phone to Sherlock, and they all returned to Baker Street. 

It really shouldn’t have been a surprise to find Sebastian Moran waiting for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, sorry. I've been uber busy with school. I'm still trying to finish a research paper covering Food and its effect on cognitive functioning in the elderly. I wrote this instead. 
> 
> Also I listened to all 4 seasons of Cabin Pressure. Which is hilarious, if you don't know what it is, I suggest you look it up right now. I now have this mental image of Martin being Sherlock and John's somewhat less gifted son. What is it with me and kidfic? Its like an addiction.


	10. Who are you, really?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait on this one, I've been sitting on half a chapter for ages.

Chapter Ten: Who are you, really?

_Will you teach me to play the violin?_

_I won’t force you to learn, not like my parent’s did._

_But I want to._

_Why?_

_Because it will be something of yours._

_…Alright._

Sherlock found Sebastian Moran settled in his chair, with his Strad nestled in his arms. He was holding it carefully, obviously aware of the instruments age and value. He was plucking at the strings, a tune Sherlock did not recognize, but one that showed some knowledge of playing. 

Moran smiled at them, a wide grin that made him look much younger than his suit (Westwood?) suggested. “Hello,” he greeted. 

Sherlock took a seat in John’s chair, the perspective was wrong, having his back to the kitchen, but he refused to show his discomfort. He laced his fingers under his chin and asked, “Are you here for Moriarty?”

Sebastian snorted, “Oh god no, I believe he wants me kept as far away from you as possible. Though I’m not sure if he thinks I’ll kill you or you’ll steal me away.” 

“Probably a bit of both,” Irene chuckled. She perched on the side of the chair beside Moran, curling her arm around his shoulders. 

“Careful, love, this is very old,” Moran placed the violin delicately on the side table. He looked nostalgic, his fingers lingering over the strings and the wood. 

“Why are you here?” John growled, clearly tired of the game. 

Sebastian sighed, rubbing his brow in frustration. “I inserted myself into Moriarty’s network to take the man down. Unfortunately, I made myself much more important to him than I intended.”

“You don’t seem to have an issue with murder, stab him in his sleep, shoot him, poison his tea. I’m sure you could figure it out,” John barked. 

Sebastian chuckled, “Don’t judge Doctor. You have your own skeletons, besides I think you missed the point where I said network. Killing off the head of the snake activates responses I am trying to avoid.” 

“You need our help,” Sherlock felt his lips quirk in amusement, this man was intriguing. 

“So it seems,” Moran shrugged, “Though I tried to avoid it.”

“He killed someone important to you,” Sherlock commented with his usual bluntness. 

“Two someones, though it was indirectly. Lets just say it is in my best interest to see the man and his network six-feet under,” Moran said, rhythmically clenching his fist. Its a habit John has when agitated, Sherlock wondered if it was a military habit. 

“Do you have a plan then?” John asked.

“Yes, though you won’t like it. I need Mycroft,” he stated, leaning forward so his fingers are perched beneath his chin, a mirror imagine to Sherlock. 

“You think my lazy brother will let you, Moriarty’s confirmed associate, anywhere near him?” Sherlock laughed. 

Moran reached into his pocket, slowly so as not to provoke John, and pulled out a large, leather bracelet. “I know better than to step foot anywhere near the Diogenes, so I need you to give this to him. Tell him we can meet here.” 

“What is that?” Irene asked, peering over his shoulder. 

“Proof,” Moran grinned. 

“Of what?” She asked. 

“Of who I am, Mycroft will understand, thats all thats important. The final game pieces are coming into place and I’m no where near ready,” he snarled, irritated at himself. 

Sherlock took the bracelet, the leather is old, supple with age. There is a cover on the top, but when he flipped it over it looked like a regular watch, if not a little strange in design. 

“I will come back tomorrow, say noon, would that be acceptable?” Moran asked, pushing himself out of the chair. 

John stepped in front of Sherlock like a particularly vicious guard dog, but Moran makes no move towards the detective. Instead, the man offers his arm to Irene and they leave the flat side by side. 

“What is that?” John asked when he was sure they were gone. 

“I haven’t the faintest, but it must be important if Moran thinks it will secure Mycroft’s assistance,” Sherlock answered, still fiddling with the strap. 

“Are you actually going to give it to your brother?” John asked, giving Sherlock a dubious look. 

Sherlock stood, tucking the band into his pocket as he moved. “In this case, I think it best to involve big brother.” 

“Really?” John asked. 

“Come along, John,” Sherlock called, already halfway down the stairs. 

***

They go to Mycroft’s house, a pretentious affair, John has never seen. It’s in a nice part of London and the rent must be outrageous. The inside is very much like the Diogenes, all dark wood and stifling fabrics. The whole place smells like leather and old books, John felt nervous just walking across the threshold.

Mycroft was in the kitchen fixing a cup of tea, which was possibly the strangest thing John has ever seen. 

“Brother,” Mycroft greeted, pushing over two cups of perfectly brewed Earl Grey like he was expecting them. 

Sherlock added extra cream and sugar just to be contrary, before placing the leather cuff on the table. “Sebastian Moran sends his regards.” 

Mycroft picked up the cuff, the slightest of tremors going up his arm. “He gave this to you?” 

“Yes, he said you would understand,” Sherlock looked hesitant, obviously reading the sudden change in his older sibling. 

“This is…” Mycroft placed the band down and ran his hand through his hair, looking as close to ruffled as John has seen him. “This is highly irregular. The man now known as Sebastian is not one of the very few people allowed access to this technology.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, his dislike for asking his brother questions outweighed by his curiosity. 

“I will explain everything once I meet with Sebastian. He gave you a time.” 

Sherlock scowled, but huffed out, “Baker street, tomorrow at noon.” 

“Then I will see you both then, if you will excuse me,” Mycroft tucked the band into his pocket and left the room with nary an explanation. 

Sherlock and John grab a cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock cursed his brother in a variety of interesting ways the entire trip back. 

***

John has paced the length of 221B at least thirty times before 1130. He was wired with adrenaline, even though he’d spent the length of the night before listening to Sherlock screech on the violin. 

Mycroft arrived at 1150, which is rather amazing for a man that likes to arrive just late enough to prove his superiority. 

At 1200 exactly, Sebastian Moran made his way up the 17 steps to 221B.

“Mycroft,” the man greeted as he entered, actually sounding pleased to see him. 

“I can assume we know each other then,” Mycroft commented, gesturing for Moran to sit, like they were in his house. 

“You can,” Moran agreed, taking a seat. He’s dressed in cargo pants and a pale blue jumper. He looked so different out of his suit that John realized Moran was much younger than he originally guessed. 

“Who are you? While I can imagine a situation where I may have sent someone back to deal with Moriarty, I think that was not the case,” Mycroft said, holding his umbrella before him like a king with his sword. 

Moran sighed, running his hand through his hair and ruffling the short strands into a mess of spikes. “My name is Hamish,” he finally said. 

“Hamish…” Mycroft encouraged him. 

With another sigh the man deflates, coming to terms with the loss of his fake identity. “ Hamish Scott Watson-Holmes, I stole the device from the Cardiff facility and came here on my own. You knew I had it, but you did not try to stop me.” 

“WHAT!?” John shrieked, and his voice tilted embarrassingly high for a moment. 

Mycroft raised his hand for silence. “The cuff I was given is a top secret device belonging to the British government. It was known to have the ability to travel across time zones, but as far as I am aware the code to activate it was lost.” 

Hamish huffed, “Don’t be dull, Uncle. Its just astro-physics. Took me a week.” 

“Judging by your appearance, you must be John’s son,” Mycroft said, ignoring the jibe. 

Flustered, Hamish stands and started pacing along the far wall, suddenly looking very much like Sherlock. “I am, sort of. John was my biological parent anyways, I barely remember him. I was raised by Sherlock.” 

Mycroft makes a curious noise, as if he can’t quite contemplate the thought. “Moriarty killed John then?”

Sherlock made a low whine from his spot on the couch. His eyes are wide and John thought this was the first time he had seen the detective truly upset. 

Hamish glanced at him, but turned his gaze back to Mycroft. “It was all roundabout, but yes, I traced the source back to Moriarty. Unfortunately, if I just kill the man I will set the same problems into motion.” 

“You’ve settled yourself quite well into his ranks, Moriarty would certainly trust a man that does not hesitate to kill and torture,” Mycroft commented, a brow raised in contempt. 

Hamish waved away the comment, a perfect imitation of Sherlock. “I left your agent alive, and the Libyan deserved it.” 

“How bad is your PTSD,” Mycroft asked.

Hamish snarled, leaning into Mycroft’s space. “Bad enough. Now will you help or do you need a psychological profile to prove I’m crazy, Uncle?”

“No,” Mycroft grinned, a slow upturning of lips like the smile of a shark. “I think you will work just fine.” 

“Hold on, Hold on!” John interjected, stepping between them. “You believe all of this? That this man has...has traveled through time and is apparently my son? Raised by Sherlock of all people, honestly.” 

“Look at him John, it’s hardly a leap,” Sherlock commented, apparently recovered from his earlier shock. “He was a doctor, a trained surgeon, you can see the marks of the scalpel on his index finger. Yet he left that job to become a soldier, the skill of his shots say he entered as a sniper, not a doctor. He has already proven his skill in deduction and yesterday he showed a fondness and familiarity with my violin. It is highly improbable, but not impossible.” 

John stared at him in open-mouthed shock. “That doesn’t mean…”  
“Honestly, John,” Sherlock sighed, pushing himself from the couch. “That is a very unique set of skills, and loathe as I am to admit it, if Mycroft says this device can travel through time, it very likely can.” 

Hamish laughed, smoothing away the tenseness of the previous argument. “I have missed you, father.” 

Sherlock twitched, like he’d been struck, but he shakes it off. “Hmm, yes, well. Instead of standing about doing nothing, perhaps this time would be best utilized forming a plan. I imagine dear Jim will notice your absence sooner rather than later.” 

“Yes,” Hamish sighed, “he’s been rather propriety of late.” 

John was in a bit of a haze, but he cleared of the kitchen table so they can start making preparations. This was going to take some getting used to.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in a bit of a writing fugue right now with 'The Vision', I'm attempting to shake free of it with this new story. As always, comments and opinions are welcome.


End file.
